


Hope

by Hexcraft



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, September 11 Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:59:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexcraft/pseuds/Hexcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this last September and it's been up on Fanfiction.net since then. Not current but I hope everyone likes it anyway!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last September and it's been up on Fanfiction.net since then. Not current but I hope everyone likes it anyway!

Nothing seemed to work. No matter what he did, the pain persisted until he felt as though he could barely stand up straight. It racked his body, radiating from the scar that wasn’t quite old. Most days it was smooth, almost invisible against the rest of his skin. But today, today it was raised and an angry red color as if the wound had only just healed over. And it _hurt._  
But he never let it show to the other nations or the people he spent his days around. He was the hero, after all, and heroes didn’t let anyone see when they were hurt. Yeah, he knew they were worried about him. Could see it in Arthur’s green eyes every time the Brit glanced at him. He could feel it in the way Matthew kept touching his arm or shoulder or back, asking if he was okay. And Francis was there, of course, because he’d been one of the first nations to respond after the horrid event that had left Alfred decimated. Mattie had been first to respond. Arthur and Francis had arrived soon after. He could still remember how horrified they’d been, the agony of the wound that had left his chest ripped wide open. The world had gotten a good look at his heart that day.  
Recovery had been slow. Of course it was. No one just bounced back from three thousand dead, not even America. Those were his citizens, his people. He was responsible for protecting them, but what had he been doing that morning? Sleeping, that’s what, because he’d never been good at getting up early. He’d been sleeping when a pain more intense than almost any he’d ever felt slammed into his chest. It had knocked the air right out of him so that he couldn’t even scream. God, he’d wanted to, though. Logical thinking hadn’t existed anymore, he was in so much pain. And then the second hit, just when the shock of the first was starting to fade, that second hit had him on the floor within milliseconds. That’s where Matthew had found him, lying huddled on his bedroom floor trying to breathe when it felt like all the oxygen was gone from the world.  
That’s what he felt like now, even though he was sitting in a car with Arthur and Matthew and Francis. Every year, they came to his house and picked him up, got him dressed up and took him out for the day. As if somehow they could make so many good memories that he would manage to forget what had happened to him all those years ago. He would have laughed if he could’ve breathed.  
A hand touched his and he turned to see Arthur watching him with concern.  
“Are you all right, love?”  
He nodded. It was hard enough to breathe—he didn’t want to try to talk only to have no sound come out.  
Arthur didn’t look like he believed the American, but he didn’t push it and settled for firmly holding onto the younger nation’s hand. Not that Alfred minded. Physical contact with his loved ones was more comforting than being taken out to eat or seeing a movie.  
Eventually, they pulled up to the curb in front of his house and he looked up at the building through the window. He made no move to get out of the car even though he knew they were dropping him off. The house looked big and empty and cold, almost foreboding. He didn’t want to be in there by himself.  
Pleading blue eyes turned to the Englishman sitting beside him and Arthur smiled just a little.  
“I’ll stay here tonight, Francis. Just don’t forget to come pick me up in the morning,” he said without turning to the Frenchman in the driver’s seat.  
“ _Oui,_ Arzhur.” Turning, Francis smiled at Alfred, though his blue eyes were sadder than usual. “Zhank you for coming out wizh us, Alfred. It was a lot of fun.”  
Another nod and something that vaguely resembled a smile was Alfred’s only response.  
“I’ll be back in a week,” Matthew reminded him, also turning in his seat. “You still have to show me that new movie.”  
Nodding again, Alfred opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb. He was still holding onto Arthur’s hand, so the Brit was pulled along with him.  
“Safe travels, Matthew,” the smaller blond said with a smile. “See you in the morning, Frog.”  
“ _Bonne nuit, Angleterre, Amérique._ ” Smiles still fixed firmly in place, Francis and Matthew waved before the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner a few seconds later.  
“Come on,” Arthur said softly, using his grip on the taller nation’s hand to lead Alfred towards the house. They were silent all the way inside and up to Alfred’s bedroom, where Arthur let out a sigh of relief and began undressing in order to go to bed. Alfred didn’t move once his hand was released, choosing instead to stare around the room as if he’d never seen it before.  
“Alfred,” Arthur all but whispered the name as he went to the bespectacled man and hugged him tightly, his arms wrapping around Alfred’s middle. “Smile for me, lad. I hate seeing you like this.”  
Slowly, Alfred hugged the older nation, burying his face in the golden blond hair and inhaling deeply to lose himself in the smell of tea and honey and rain. He was trembling, he knew, and he knew Arthur could feel it, but at this point he didn’t care. All he wanted was for it to be tomorrow, for the pain in his chest to fade and for the scar to turn mostly invisible once again.  
“I love you, you know.”  
The blue-eyed blond managed a small smile. “Love you, too.”  
Arthur pulled away and smiled back at him. “Let’s get you ready for bed, love.” Without waiting for permission, he grabbed onto the fabric of Alfred’s t-shirt and lifted, revealing first tanned stomach muscles then matching chest—he stopped suddenly as a shocked gasp escaped him.  
“A-Alfred…is that…”  
Green eyes met blue and Alfred nodded, knowing that Arthur was asking if that was the scar from the 9/11 attack of 2001. This was the first time he’d let anyone see it like this, on this specific day, when it was angry and fresh. The pain and pity in Arthur’s eyes were expected yet unwelcome. The last thing he wanted was for Arthur to be sad, too.  
“It looks painful.”  
Alfred took the deepest breath he could manage, the scar twinging as his skin pulled slightly. “Hurts.”  
In silence, Arthur finished removing his younger companion’s t-shirt before he hugged him again. To Alfred’s surprise, the Brit pulled away again after only a second, then placed a gentle kiss on the scar.  
“Why…?”  
The smile Arthur gave him now was sad but genuine. “Because I love you. I know I can’t take away your pain or your memories, and I can’t undo what happened, but I can do this.” He kissed the scar again, all along its length, and Alfred wanted to tell him to never stop. When even the softest shirt he owned felt like sandpaper against the agitated flesh, the Englishman’s kisses were gentle as a feather. It was better than the oils and salves and rubs and numbing gels he’d tried over the past twelve years, better than ice and medicine. It was heaven.  
“Artie…” he sighed it, able to breathe once more as if Arthur’s attentions had somehow brought the world’s oxygen back to its proper place.  
“Yes, love?”  
Capturing the shorter man’s chin in his hand, Alfred tilted Arthur’s face up so he could look into those beautiful green eyes before kissing the man. “Love you.”  
“And I love you, you wanker.” The insult was empty, almost endearing, and, without bothering to change out of his jeans, Alfred climbed into his bed with Arthur right beside him. They huddled together under the blankets, snuggling close to one another for warmth and comfort and companionship.  
Already, the pain in his chest was starting to fade, despite the fact that it would be another few hours before today was over. But one of Arthur’s deceptively delicate hands had found its way to his chest and was lying over the scar, tracing it so lightly he could barely feel the touch. After all these years, the best medicine had been right here, all along. Gratitude to the older nation overwhelmed him and Alfred hugged the Brit tightly as Arthur chuckled. Arthur made the pain go away. Arthur helped him to breathe when nothing else worked.  
Maybe next year he’d just get the older nation to spend all day lying in bed with him. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so bad.


End file.
